


The Freytag Gambit: Exposition

by beetle



Series: The Freytag Gambit [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Attraction, Autumn, Awkward Cullen, Awkward Flirting, Banter, Chance Meetings, Chess, Chess in the Park, Cullavellan - Freeform, Cullen Has Issues, Depression, Emotionally Repressed, Feels, First Meetings, Hopeful Ending, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Meet-Cute, Numbness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Shyness, So does Lavellan, Social Anxiety, They both deserve a little hope, anhedonia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 20:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12239994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: “So. You’ve been sizing me up for the better part of a fortnight—I’ll bet you knowallmy cleverest moves, by now—care to finally have a go?”Startled by the familiar, almost-like-home accent—plus a faint-but-there, singsong lilt for flavor—Cullen Stanton Rutherford found himself blinking in utter shock, and looking right at the young chess-player sitting one bench over. . . .





	The Freytag Gambit: Exposition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thewickedkat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewickedkat/gifts), [stitchcasual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stitchcasual/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: Modern chess-themed AU. Mentions of PTSD and clinical depression. And chess. First of a five-fics series, following the five-part Freytag dramatic arc. Also, did I mention the chess?

“So. You’ve been sizing me up for the better part of a fortnight—I’ll bet you know _all_ my cleverest moves, by now—care to finally have a go?”

 

Startled by the familiar, almost-like-home accent—plus a faint-but-there, singsong lilt for flavor—Cullen Stanton Rutherford found himself blinking in utter shock, and looking right at the young chess-player sitting one bench over.

 

It was a chilly fall day, all bluster and bite and dust-devils of orange and gold leaves. The same aggressive breeze that carried the distracting swirls of October finery around the mostly empty park, flirted with Cullen’s brassy, grown-out hair, and swept it across his furrowed brow. Thankfully, his overdue-for-barbering shag wasn’t quite long enough yet to obscure his vision.

 

Though, the same probably couldn’t be said for the young man opening the small box made of battered-smooth, but unvarnished wood. His pale, tapering, spidery-graceful fingers deftly plucked chess pieces from the box and began setting up a game on one of park’s many stone tables, with the fading, painted-on chessboards. As he did so, _his_ hair, shoulder-length, thick, and the color of banked embers, whipped around a pale, delicate profile, into eyes Cullen had yet to meet. But those fingers seemed to know what they were at in a way that mere obscured vision wouldn’t except.

 

“Mm, normally I take silence as assent, but I think that in _this_ case, I’ll need a firmer answer.”

 

Blinking again, his brow furrowing even more as he frowned, Cullen’s mouth and throat worked to force out a relevant and word-like noise. He was rather surprised when he partially succeeded. “Ah . . . erm . . . whah?”

 

The other did not respond until the board was set. Then, he brushed his messy, fiery hair out of his face and tucked it haphazardly behind one pink, slightly pointed ear. The pale-peach cheek revealed was also pink from the day’s chill and bluster, and lightly freckled.

 

Then, Cullen was blinking again, and gaping, too, as he found himself gazing into wide, lucent eyes greener than the heart of summer, and set in a face that certainly delivered on the delicate, lovely promise of its profile. Cullen’s breath caught, and his mouth went instantly dry—not that that was such a feat, lately, as he was almost always dehydrated—and his pulse beat a panicky tattoo in his temple.

 

The young chess-player quirked a left-crooking smile, his curving, untamed red brows lifting just a bit as he tilted his head and regarded Cullen with friendly amusement. Between that mischievous smile and those dazzling summer-eyes, Cullen not only lost the plot entirely, but couldn’t imagine what it had been, in the first place.

 

“Oh, I make a habit, you might say, of _not_ thrashing strange, brawny men at chess without receiving their fully-expressed permission, first. If only in the interests of keeping my scrawny arse unkicked. Relatively,” he added wryly, waving one elegant hand at the waiting game. Cullen, still gaping, managed to close his mouth halfway, only for it to fall open again as more word-noises—not especially relevant ones, but the effort made by his cluttered-sludgy brain was much appreciated—fell from his chapped lips.

 

“I, er, don’t, um. That is.” Cullen closed his mouth and his eyes for a moment, attempting to collect himself. It wasn’t anything close to a victory. His pulse refused to slow; his breathing refused to return to its normal, involuntary rate of steadiness; and his mouth was still a dust-bowl of choked, useless sounds. None of which was helped by that pretty, puckish face, which was apparently branded on the back of Cullen’s eyelids and the front of his very psyche, all huge, kind-curious eyes and sweetly curving lips, set in such an even, fair complexion and framed perfectly—contrastingly—by that wild, fiery mane of gorgeous hair.

 

When he opened his eyes nearly a minute later, it was to see the chess-player still watching him with that keen, clear gaze and an inquisitive, but still gentle expression. Patient and generous. Cullen’s heart slowed for a moment, nearly to a stand-still, before speeding up alarmingly, doing triple-time behind the cage of his ribs. He flushed, then blanched, then flushed again, his entire body chilled even as it broke out in a light sweat. To Cullen’s sudden dismay, he realized he’d once again been so obsessively focused on his narrow purview that he’d missed the radiant forest for an admittedly intriguing tree. This skilled chess-player was—face-on, and after two weeks of distant observation of the man’s _game_ rather than his looks—lovely beyond Cullen’s previous frame of reference for the word. Beyond the point of distraction, to the realm of a gut-punch that was likely to repeat each time Cullen saw that face anew.

 

Really, the second time was even more intense than the first. Cullen dared not look away again, for fear the third glance would fell him immediately upon looking back.

 

And he couldn’t imagine _not_ looking back.

 

“Who are you?” Cullen heard himself ask finally, his voice soft, shaken, and sore-sounding. The other man’s smile deepened, making his large eyes even more luminous. Faint lines at their outer edges crinkled attractively, as did his pointy, pixie nose.

 

“Well! I admire a man with the stones to ask the _big_ questions first, and save the small-talk for the afterglow!” Those wild, expressive brows waggled ridiculously and Cullen, torn between a blush and a blanch yet again, was saved from having to choose a response when the young chess-player went on blithely, while sketching a brief, jaunty half-bow from his seated position. “Niall-Fintan Lochlann Oisin Brendan Kelly-Lavellan—everyone seems to call me _Brendan_ or _Brend_ , whether I ask them to, or not, so I suppose I may as well ask _you_ —lately of Cobble Hill, Brooklyn, by way of several _lovely_ , but forgettable parts of Jolly Ol’ . . . ever at your service.”

 

Cullen could only stare as the man straightened, still smiling his big, glowing smile, his wind-pinkened complexion gone a bit pinker. That gentle dusting of freckles was now impossible to make out.

 

“And you are. . . ?” the young man— _Brendan_ —prodded when another half-minute went by with only Cullen’s gobstruck staring and dinning silence to mark it. He could barely hear Brendan over the rushing of his own pulse in his ears and ragged, whistling breaths through his nose. Could barely seem to think over the overwhelming loveliness of the other man, now that he’d finally _noticed_ it.

 

At this realization, Cullen finally did blush and tear his gaze away. Let it travel around this particular clearing—empty, but for Cullen and the chess-player, several benches, and the stone chess tables and adjacent stone seats—then aimed his skittering eyes at the chess-board.

 

“I . . . my name is . . . Cullen,” he once again heard himself mutter, and with some surprise. And he was uncertain he was _at all_ happy with the admission. He focused on Brendan’s long hands and tapering, graceful fingers, and his brow furrowed even more deeply. Displeased lines etched themselves at the corners of his mouth, too, no doubt. “Everyone just calls me _Cullen_ , I suppose. Lately of Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Er. By way of . . . several places.”

 

“ _Several Places_ , eh?” Brendan hummed and chuckled, lifting his left hand to make an “OK” gesture with his slender fingers. “Never been there, _meself_ , but I hear the food is _to-die-for_.”

 

“Ha!” The startled bark of a laugh exploded out of Cullen’s underused throat and under-expressed being as if it’d been chased out at gunpoint. It sounded as angry and terse—as ill-tempered and miserable—as Cullen tended to be in forced social situations with strangers. And sometimes even with his family. He could hear, as if she were looking over his shoulder, his older sister’s gentle chastising of him for being such a grump. Mia’s cheeky teasing of his ever-grimmer and grimmer nature, however, had the power to make him smile, even now: when she wasn’t present and he was, himself, _far_ from comfortable.

 

Though, he could only imagine his shifting facial expression achieved, at most, _discomfited grimace_ -status, since he’d been starting out at such a scowling deficit.

 

But he certainly wouldn’t have thought it, simply going by the bemused curiosity and open friendliness on the peachy-lovely face still observing him with humor and kindness. Undoubtedly, Brendan’s _every_ expression was equally arresting and attention-grabbing . . . _breathtaking_. And not _just_ because of his physical beauty, but because he seemed to radiate goodness . . . sweetness . . . optimism.

 

Hope.

 

All the things of which Cullen hadn’t had even a small share in many years. Things of which he couldn’t even recall the slightest feel or taste, let alone what it was to have them be innate facets of his character.

 

The unintentional comparison and contrast of their looks—their personalities—their very baseline _natures_ —was . . . disheartening to Cullen. But then, these days, few things weren’t.

 

He found his gaze skittering here and there as he eased his way along the bench, further from Brendan and in preparation to hurry off.

 

“Oi, now,” Brendan tutted gently, sounding amused still, but not necessarily at Cullen’s expense. Which was the only reason Cullen paused in his easing-away, and looked up into those bright eyes. Brendan’s glowing smile was a bit hapless and hopeful. “I know I can be a bit . . . _much_ , sometimes. A chatty, obnoxious twat, and all that. But I _promise_ , that’s only on days that end in ‘Y,’ yeah? The _rest_ of the time, I’m very, very charming, but demure. Like a tipsy nun!”

 

This time, a wry snort escaped Cullen and, on the back of it, a grimace that was very nearly a half-smile. But Brendan’s smile brightened as if Cullen had given him the key to New York City. Like a spotlight piercing the incrementally deepening, four a.m.-darkness that had been Cullen’s life for the past three years.

 

The breeze kicked up stiffly, ruffling Cullen’s grown-out hair across his brow and whipping Brendan’s fiery locks into his face hard. He laughed and didn’t bother to brush his unruly hair away, merely let it fly around his head and obscure his features. Though, it didn’t _quite_ obscure those gorgeous eyes, nor did it dim the brightness of that _smile_. Cullen still felt the other man’s beauty like a gut-punch and this time, it left him winded and weak. Floundering and helpless in its path, like a dead leaf on a careless zephyr.

 

Suddenly, even standing seemed arduous, let alone striding away at his usual light-speed near-jog.

 

“Oh, don’t stop almost-smiling, _now_! You’ve got such a _nice_ one. Or, so I imagine, if even _this_ wee, melancholy quarter-smile—eh, maybe _one-third smile_ —is so captivating.” Brendan winked and looked back at his set-up game while all the blood drained from Cullen’s already pale face . . . only to immediately refill it to capacity. “And, anyway, _you_ owe me a game, Mr. Cullen.”

 

“I,” Cullen began, then cleared his throat so his next words wouldn’t be a worn-out, tiny whisper, “that is, I . . . _what_?”

 

“A game. You and me. You _owe_ me one. Well, _I_ owe _you_ one, as well—it’s kind of a mutual owing sort of thing, I suppose?—but you’ve been studying my game for two weeks, now. Studying it _hard_. Which means you think I’m an interesting challenge—or at least not a depressingly easy win. Worth observing, and therefore, worth weighing-in against. And I must admit,” Brendan hummed, sing-song, excited, and off-key. “I’m terribly flattered. No one of, ahem, _note_ has studied my game for so long or in-depth, in quite some time.”

 

Again, those remarkable eyes met Cullen’s, shining and merry, as Brendan waved at the game once more.

 

“ _C’mon_ , then, Mr. Cullen, sir! Have a seat and make your move! As you can see, I’ve been _very_ magnanimous, and let you have red.”

 

Cullen’s right eyebrow quirked and his grimace of a smile made a slight return. “Yes . . . how gracious of you to allow the presumptive-challenger the first move, so you can do some sizing up of your own and begin mounting both a strategy and defense!”

 

Brendan laughed, bright and unrestrained, tipping Cullen a charming wink. His cheeks were rosy and Cullen wanted very much to brush his fingers along the curves of them, to see if they were as warm and smooth as they looked.

 

“Well,” the other man said with suspect modesty, voice and lips quaking with laughter, still. “I’m a man who tends to play aggressively. Always on the offense. But sometimes . . . I like to step out of my accustomed role and live dangerously. Especially when my opponent is likely to be brave enough to do the same.”

 

Now, both of Cullen’s brows lifted. “You’re reading rather a lot into someone to whom you’ve only barely said . . . well, _quite a few words_ , actually.”

 

Brendan shrugged, his smile fading a bit into something melancholy and wry. “’Twas once my bread and butter, the sizing up of opponents in a few instants. The very air I breathed. Not anymore, but . . . I like to think I haven’t lost the knack of that. It comes in handy, more than it doesn’t, I find,” he added quietly, visibly cranking up his smile to its former, seemingly effortless brilliance.

 

Cullen decided to store that change in expression—from enchanting-charming to regretful-sad, and back, but with far less genuine feeling—for later consideration. As it stood, he was already far beyond his comfort-level when it came to interaction with strangers, no matter how pleasant and attractive.

 

“In that case, I do hope you, er, find a suitable challenger soon. I’m afraid I . . . need to be shoving along,” Cullen said, flushing and blanching repeatedly, until he felt light-headed when he attempted to at last stand. He even faltered a bit, and noticeably enough that from the corners of his averted eyes he could see Brendan’s face crease in lines of worry.

 

“Are you alright, Cullen?” Brendan asked, his rich tenor low and unexpectedly solemn as he half-stood, as if preparing to catch Cullen, should he topple over.

 

Smiling— _actually smiling_ —just a bit in the face of such earnest concern, Cullen’s face finally settled somewhere between flush and blanch. He straightened steadily, stretching and letting the accompanying chorus of snaps, crackles, and pops speak for him. At least for a few moments.

 

“I’m about as well as I ever am, er, Brendan.” Shooting a quick glance the other man’s way, it was to see those large, lovely, leaf-green eyes sans all merriment, now, and keen almost to the point of grimness in their assessment of Cullen.

 

“And yet, I’m _more_ concerned, now, not less,” Brendan murmured, and Cullen chuckled wearily.

 

“I’m fine,” he claimed, and for once it wasn’t even a lie . . . or not by much. “And, anyway, I really must be going. I’m supposed to pick up Gereon shortly. Ugh, _very_ shortly,” Cullen added as he checked his phone for the time. It was just after two. School would be letting out in about half an hour. Just enough time for him stretch his legs getting there, rather than having to take the bus. Or, worse, the subway. “There’ll be Hell to pay, if I leave him waiting. I’ll never hear the end of the complaining.”

 

“Ah. Well. My loss is, er, _Gereon’s_ gain, I suppose. The good ones are _always_ taken or straight, alas and alack,” Brendan said with put-on despair, but the merriment still hadn’t returned to that strangely piercing gaze. Cullen huffed cynically.

 

“Then I must not be one of those good ones, since I’m neither.” Pressing his lips together in an ungenerous line, he answered Brendan’s quirked red brows with some more gaze-darting, as well as nervous, uncontrolled brow-waggling. “And anyway, Gereon’s my six-year-old nephew. I, er, pick him up from elementary school and look after him until Mia and Felix—my sister and her husband—get home.”

 

“Ah,” Brendan said again, turning a fetching, rosy pink once more, his gaze dropping for a moment, even as his smile returned: small, but very pleased. “Right. In that case, I’ll . . . let you go, Cullen. With my sincere hope that you manage to avoid the scolding of an impatient six-year-old. And I . . . also hope you _haven’t_ been _so_ put off by my blatherskite, flirting, and clumsily transparent attempt to suss out your relationship status and preferences, that you won’t take me up on that game, sometime soon.”

 

When those eyes met Cullen’s again, they were a bit shy, but warm and hopeful. This time, there was no contest between the flush and the blanch. Cullen’s face felt as if it’d gone up in flames.

 

“I, er,” he began, inching around the table in front of his bench and reluctantly away from Brendan’s pure, bright gaze. “That is. . . .”

 

“I’m here almost every day, usually between noon and three. Part of my daily routine, this chess-sharking.” Brendan winked and sparkled up at Cullen, his eyes doing blatant recon as they travelled down Cullen’s form—from the reddish-brown, knit jumper; the unzipped, heather-gray windbreaker worn over it, in which pockets Cullen tended to shove his big, nervous hands; his too-pristine-to-be-fashionable straight-legged blue jeans, and his worn-but-cared-for grey boots—then back up. That assessing gaze was approving and interested, when it met Cullen’s startled one again. “Hmm, and now that I’ve got a shot at a _worthwhile_ challenger, I’ll have even _more_ reason to be here, of an afternoon. _Grand_!”

 

“Oh!” Cullen replied on one explosive exhale, as if the response had been kicked out of him. Brendan’s smile widened and curled impishly, and he gave Cullen another once-over that was heated and promising, if Cullen wasn’t misreading it. And misreading _was_ a distinct possibility, though Cullen’s tendency was to see _danger_ even where there was none, not interest where there wasn’t likely to be any.

 

And besides, Brendan _had said_ . . . flirting. Sussing out of relationship-status and preferences and . . . _flirting_.

 

Flirting and such were, surely, things some people merely did as par for the course, regardless of with whom. It was simply a quirk of personality, for some. _Brendan Lavellan_ might be one of those people, true, but. . . .

 

But the _sussing_ . . . why would _that_ matter to someone who was _only_ interested in flirting and banter and teasing? Why—

 

“You look like a rabbit faced with a winter-starved wolf!” Brendan exclaimed gently, and it was both coo and tut. The soft-kind flicker in his eyes lingered for long moments during which Cullen stammered and blushed, quickly and embarrassingly, until Brendan laughed again. “Oh, _Cullen_ , you’re bloody _adorable_! I can’t _stand_ it that you’re so cute, yet standing so far away . . . ah, me.”

 

“Well, _now_ , you’re just making me blush on-purpose!” Cullen accused with shaky offense. Brendan’s lilting laugh turned into snickers, and he snapped the fingers of his left hand.

 

“Rats! You’ve caught me out, then. You _are_ especially fanciable when you’re blushing and discombobulated, Cullen. _Especially_.” Brendan waggled his brows meaningfully and winked. “But I promise I don’t bite, unless _asked_. Or unless I’m extremely . . . _tempted_.”

 

Another bright, heated flash of that unmistakable interest in Brendan’s lucent eyes and again, Cullen’s blood went rushing. But _not_ to his face. Not in that direction _at all_.

 

For the first time in nearly three years—since being discharged from the army, and shuttled off back home, then eventually to the States and Mia, when Bran and Rosie couldn’t deal with keeping an eye on a barely-functioning older brother, as well as their _own_ hectic lives—Cullen Rutherford was strongly, actively _attracted_ to someone.

 

Overwhelmed, yes, by both that person _and_ his own attraction to said person, but . . . attracted, nonetheless. Very _strongly_.

 

_Very_ actively.

 

“Keep giving me _those_ come-hither baby-blues, Mr. Cullen, and you’ll shortly find yourself with an amorous armful and prey to some _very_ insistent nibbling,” Brendan warned, his pretty face flushed once more. The green of his eyes was like a handful of emeralds seen through licking flames and Cullen couldn’t look away or speak. He could only stand there, stare, and hope that his rapidly intensifying physical reaction wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

 

After an eternity of locked gazes and wordless exchange in which Cullen participated even as he wished he could bloody _understand it_ , Brendan turned his gaze back to his board and hummed, ending their silent dialogue. “ _Lovely_. Well, run along, then, Cullen. Before you give wee Gereon reason to scold his uncle. And perhaps . . . I’ll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Perhaps,” Cullen agreed breathlessly before his brain could make him say an unequivocal _no_. It was clearly of the opinion that the last thing Cullen needed was any sort of entanglement with someone so unpredictable. Someone who might, sooner or later, demand of Cullen something he was no longer capable of giving. Even if he wanted to. But he _refused_ to let his usual megrims and paranoia ruin such a spontaneously wonderful moment. For once, he’d take this pleasant interlude at face-value. His near-smile widened and firmed up a bit, twitching higher on the right side than the left. “G-good day, Brendan.”

 

“Mm. Good day, Cullen.”

 

Then Cullen was turning toward the exit while his alarmist brain remonstrated and warned at a lower volume than usual. His gut-level instinct, however, energetically stoked the embers of attraction that seemed to be flaring under Cullen’s skin and in his marrow, as well as . . . other places.

 

From the burnt-out, wary-weary cinder that had once been Cullen’s _heart_ . . . there was silence, as ever. But for once, it was the wakening hush of roused consideration. Not the vacuum-stillness of a pile of ash gone dead beyond all resurrection.

 

_For a moment_ , Cullen even felt the ghost-memory _beat_ of his long-absent heart keenly: a thud in his chest that ached; a throb in his veins that burned; and a return of an entire spectrum of color that’d gone M.I.A. during his final tour of duty. It’d been replaced by the stark, sharp grey-black-white of survival-focused paranoia and constant, debilitating fear . . . or, as the doctors called it, _combat-related PTSD with co-occurring clinical depression_.

 

But the moment passed and Cullen blinked up at the overcast, white-blue swirl of sky, his mind tranquil and relatively free of its usual rat-run anxiety and clutter. _Smiling_ , he hunched his shoulders against the wind and chill, and picked up his already quick pace. Just the thought of Gereon’s pouty-mouthed frown and old-soul hazel eyes—a mix of Mia’s bright blue and Felix’s dark brown—should Cullen be even _five minutes_ late, made him snort and actually _grin_ for a few seconds.

 

With his eyes on the road ahead—even as he felt Brendan’s considering gaze on his back—Cullen hurried off in an eddy and flurry of orange and gold. _Fall, itself_ , carried him out of the park and on his way.

 

But the indelible memory of Brendan’s eyes kept him _warm-warm-warm_ : from his flushed face to his twiddling toes, and from the thoughtful-silent cinder in his chest to the hands that were shoved, as ever, in the pockets of his gray windbreaker.

 

All the way to Gereon’s school, in the back of his mind, he played his way through his favorite chess strategies—brushed up on his long-neglected offensive and dusted off his _best_ moves. In less than twenty-four hours, he had a chess match-up—and perhaps more—to win, after all. His first _meaningful_ challenge in longer than he cared to remember.

 

And even if he _lost_ the match-up, well . . . Cullen had a good feeling that for once, he’d come out a winner, nonetheless.

 

END

**Author's Note:**

> Powered by Phillip Glass’ lovely, melancholy [Metamorphosis](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_hMw1C6fPt8).
> 
> [beetle on the Tumbles](http://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com)!


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